The Great Revolt, page 12
He also thought of Hales and Sudbury. He had heard they had gone to the chapel in the Tower when the peasants broke in. He wondered if they were praying for mercy and deliverance shortly before they were dragged out to their gruesome deaths. Maybe God was busy with something else at that moment. Guy hoped He was listening to Richard right now.
Half an hour passed and the sun came and went, sending the Abbey into gloomy shadows whenever it disappeared behind a cloud. Guy shivered a little in the cold stone vastness of the nave and wondered what the rest of the day held. As the abbey clock chimed the half hour, Richard got to his feet and turned to his entourage. ‘We shall go to meet the rebels once again. A few hundred remain and they are gathered at Smithfield.’
Outside, the warmth of the summer day took the chill from Guy’s bones but not the gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach as they headed east to meet the rustics.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thomas Rolfe was determined to go home. Tilda could see it on his face. He had convinced himself that the revolt was over and they should go back to Aylesford and begin to enjoy the benefits of their new freedoms. But Tilda’s instincts told her to hold on. She was in the attic staring out on to the street when he came up to talk to her.
‘My dearing, we should start our journey before too much of the day has gone,’ he said.
‘Father, look out of the window. There’s still a lot of people from the country around.’ You could spot them easily enough. As well has having weather-worn faces and shabbier clothes, very few of them were fat. In London, Tilda had seen more plump people than she had ever seen in her life.
‘We spend all our days working and heaving and tilling,’ said Thomas when she pointed this out. ‘A lot of this lot sit on their backsides all day. That can’t be good for you, can it!’
Tilda quite liked the sound of that. The more she thought about it, the more she didn’t want to return to Aylesford. ‘And if they’re all going back today we’ll never find an inn to stay in when darkness falls,’ she said.
Thomas was sharp with her. ‘I know what you’re up to my girl,’ he said. ‘You like it here and you want to stay.’
Tilda was disappointed he could read her mind so easily. ‘So what if I do, Father,’ she said. ‘What’s waiting for us back home?’
Thomas looked astonished. ‘Everything will be better. We’ll have the chance to work for ourselves, sell our goods at market, pay less rent…’
‘Do you honestly believe that’s going to happen?’
Thomas stared at the floor. For a moment he looked sad. ‘You always were cleverer than me, Tilda. I know that. And you’re right. I don’t know how much we can trust the king and his cronies. It might be a big trick to get us to go away.’
‘Let’s just stay here and see how things work out – at least for another day,’ Tilda pleaded.
‘I’ll talk to John when he comes back,’ said Thomas. ‘Make sure he’s happy with it. I don’t want him or Alice to feel we’re overstaying our welcome.’
John was out talking to a customer over the river in Smithfield. The man wanted another storey built on his house, he had told them earlier. It was an urgent job. His wife was expecting another baby and the house already held five children under ten.
Tilda and Thomas went downstairs to find Alice knitting at the kitchen table. ‘We’re planning on heading home…’ said Thomas.
Alice’s face lit up before he could finish what he was going to say and she immediately sprang to her feet. ‘It’s been a great pleasure to meet you, Thomas Rolfe,’ she said. ‘And you too, Tilda. What a fine, bonny girl you are.’
Faced with such a definite goodbye, Tilda could see Thomas was lost for words. ‘We just wanted to wait until Uncle John comes home, to thank him too,’ she said, trying to prepare Alice for the fact that they weren’t going immediately.
‘Oh no, you’d best be going,’ said Alice. ‘Make a good start before evening. I’ll prepare a little food parcel for you to take with you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thomas. ‘We’ll just go for a final look around.’
‘That went well,’ said Tilda as they walked towards London Bridge. ‘She can’t wait to get us out of the door.’
‘Probably anxious that you don’t bring home another Fleming,’ said her father, although she could tell he was teasing her.
Thomas bought them a meat pie to share. It was piping-hot and he couldn’t resist the smell. They ate standing on the Embankment, looking over the great bridge at the teeming vastness of London with its thousands of roofs and scores of steeples and towers.
‘This is a funny place,’ said Thomas. ‘I don’t know whether I like it or not.’
‘I do,’ said Tilda. ‘It’s exciting to be here. I hope we can visit again.’
Thomas nodded. Tilda sensed this was not the time to discuss this but she did wonder if she might yet be able to persuade her father to stay.
As they watched the boats and barges go by, it slowly dawned on both of them that something was afoot. A steady stream of people were heading over the bridge in a determined and excitable way.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ said Thomas. ‘I think we ought to go before there’s trouble.’
Just then they heard a cry. ‘Thomas! Tilda!’ John was coming off the bridge. He was out of breath. ‘The king is meeting the rebels at Smithfield. There’s a great crowd of them and everyone is in a state. Something is going to happen, for sure.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Tilda. Once again, she was sure this was history in the making.
Thomas looked afraid. ‘No. This is a sign for us to leave. We’ve escaped with our lives. There’s nothing more that can be achieved here.’
John put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Tilda’s right to want to go, Thomas.’
‘Father – think of all the history we’ve heard about – William the Conqueror, Richard the Lionheart, the Battle of Crécy… all these great moments that people talk about for years and years – moments that last beyond a lifetime. Well, it’s happening right now, in front of our eyes.’
‘I agree with Tilda,’ said John. ‘Come on, let’s head up to Smithfield.’
And so they did.
*
The late afternoon sun was still high in the sky by the time they got to the great meadow just outside the city walls at Smithfield. An abbey set on fire during the disturbances of the previous night still smouldered away.
The crowd they could see seemed quite different from the God-fearing peasants who had proclaimed their allegiance to the king at Blackheath a mere few days ago. They were altogether surlier and they bristled with weapons – some with proper military pikes and swords. Others had agricultural scythes, pitchforks and corn-flails they had brought with them from their villages. They looked like they were spoiling for a fight. But they were much smaller in number than Tilda had expected. At Mile End, she had heard, there had been tens of thousands of people. Here were maybe four hundred at most.
‘But there’s still plenty of flags of St George and even a Royal Standard or two,’ said John.
‘Maybe they captured those. Maybe they want the king to think they’re on his side and this is a trap?’
‘Shall we go and join them?’ said Tilda.
‘No, hold back,’ said Thomas. ‘If this turns nasty I want to make sure we can get away easily enough.’
Tilda thought they were letting the rebels down and should go and stand with them, but this was not the time to argue with her father. Besides, a part of her didn’t want any of them to risk their lives again. They had been so near to death several times since they had arrived in London. They were not cats with nine lives. They would watch from the sidelines, close to the edge of the city and its alleyways, where they could escape if need be.
It was an extraordinary scene – all these rebels waiting for something to happen. Tilda had heard soldiers talk about battle and the awful tension of the wait before the killing started. She had always been grateful, when hearing about this, that she had been born a girl. It sounded terrifying. Yet here she was now. Close enough to see this very thing. She felt excited being able to witness it, and yet ashamed of her excitement. Wouldn’t it be nobler to be there with them?
‘Look, there’s Wat Tyler,’ said Thomas. Tilda looked to where he pointed, and sure enough the barrel-chested soldier who had spoken to them back in Aylesbury was there at the front of his men, clear to see in a red tunic with black sleeves. He looked full of spit and vinegar with an insolent swagger. ‘I’d say that man has been drinking,’ Thomas added.
Close by, someone was holding the reins of an impressive grey horse. ‘Let’s hope he can stay in the saddle,’ said John.
Despite their numbers, the crowd were not boisterous. They sensed death was near and this could be their final day. Instead, there was a strange weight hanging above them – a shuffling and a murmuring and a palpable air of tension.
In the distance, a soft rumble of hooves reached their ears. It was coming from the city, to be sure, not to the side or behind the rebel phalanx. It did not look like an attempt to outflank them.
An eerie stillness descended on Wat Tyler and his men. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The sound of hooves grew louder. Clearly the king was coming with a large number of mounted soldiers. All eyes turned to the outskirts of the city, and shortly after the king and his soldiers emerged from one of the wider thoroughfares.
Once again, Tilda felt strangely thrilled to see the king. Richard was there at the vanguard of his men. He presented an easy target for any archer or crossbowman in the rebel ranks. Just as when she spotted him at Greenwich, she thought he looked unlike anyone she had ever seen before, resplendent in a great cloak so sumptuous she struggled to even name the colour. It was a blue so deep and rich it was almost purple, and topped with a wide collar of pure white ermine. As if this was not enough to mark him out as the monarch, atop his blond curling hair, his gold crown gleamed in the sunshine. He was so astonishing to look at, it took Tilda a while to notice his horse – a great chestnut-brown charger almost as regal as its rider. She thought of Brownie, their ploughing horse, and wondered with a pang of regret whether she would ever see him again.
The king led his soldiers far enough into the field to allow them to disperse behind him. There were maybe two hundred men in all, mostly on horseback and mostly armed with the spears and swords of professional soldiers.
‘Well, it looks like we have twice as many men as them,’ said Thomas. ‘Maybe four hundred to the king’s two hundred?’
‘Yes, but they’re proper soldiers,’ said John. ‘They’re used to fighting. And they’re covered in armour. I still wouldn’t fancy Tyler’s chances if this comes to blows.’
Close by King Richard were men whose clothes suggested both wealth and influence. ‘That’s Sir William Walworth,’ said John. ‘I recognise him. He’s the Lord Mayor of London. Nasty snake of a man.’
Tilda noticed a youth standing near the king. He looked so like Richard she wondered if the king had a twin. Even from a distance she could tell he was frightened but trying his hardest not to show it. He had a pen and parchment poised on a pallet. A difficult thing to do on a horse. He was about her age, she guessed. Watching history, and recording it for the future.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As the two sides faced each other, Guy de Clare regarded the rebel army with trepidation. They were outnumbered two to one, he guessed. Maybe they were a hundred yards apart. It was a distance a cantering horse could cover in a matter of seconds and certainly close enough for any archer to launch an arrow straight at the king, and at him for that matter.
Scrutinising the rebels he noticed a lot of them were carrying bows and arrows and some had crossbows. Perhaps they had looted the armoury at the Tower? Either way, this was not an encounter they were going to win by force of arms. He looked over to Richard, who was looking every inch the king in his royal finery. He was giving nothing away. He seemed as calm as ever.
From out of the mob, a rider emerged, approaching on a fine grey horse. He looked like a soldier, although he was wearing a bright red tunic with black sleeves. ‘Behold Wat Tyler, the demon-in-chief,’ said Richard under his breath.
Guy too guessed this man was the leader of the revolt. He seemed quite content to approach them, although a handful of other men on horseback were emerging from the mob. They had good reason to feel safe. If they were cut down by the king’s men, a hail of arrows from the peasants would devastate the royal guard.
Guy watched closely. The nearer the man came, the more repellent he seemed. He had a smug, insolent look on his face and something of the appearance of a bar-room bully. William Walworth could not contain himself. ‘Give me the word, Your Majesty, and I will cut down this insolent dog.’
Richard said nothing, but a small wave of the hand indicated that the lord mayor should remain where he was.
Now the upstart was there in front of them, almost close enough to strike down with a sword. The others who had come with him stayed a few yards further behind.
He regarded the king and his entourage with cold, scheming eyes. ‘My lords,’ he said, doing nothing to hide the mockery in his voice. ‘Your Majesty.’ He nodded his head, almost imperceptibly – the most they were going to get in any display of deference. ‘I have a list of demands for you to agree to. And then we will all go back to our villages.’
The voice was common, vulgar. And, Guy noted with a mixture of contempt and alarm, a little slurred by drink.
‘We demand our freedom,’ said the man, with a broad wave of his arm. ‘We demand the abolition of the aristocracy. All ’cept the king. We are loyal to Your Majesty, still.’
There was something enragingly insolent in his manner. The way he smirked as if this was all a private joke. Most threatening of all, as he spoke, the man started to toss a dagger from hand to hand. He paused a moment, expecting a response, the dagger momentarily stilled. Richard said nothing but indicated with a wave of his hand that this leader of the villeins should continue.
‘We demand the abolition of the senior clergy – all except our own great churchman John Ball. He shall be the next Archbishop of Canterbury.’
The king looked puzzled. One of his courtiers whispered in his ear to remind him. ‘A vexatious priest, Your Majesty. He has been preaching treason these last few months.’
‘The courts and the enforcers of the law shall be run by the people themselves,’ Tyler continued. ‘And our final demand is this. The wealth of the bishops and the lords shall be divided among the common people.’
There was a strange silence, and a terrible, unbearable suspense. Guy wondered what on earth was going to happen next. This man continued to toss the dagger he carried from hand to hand. It was so quiet you could hear it slapping from one palm to another.
At last, Richard spoke. ‘We agree to all your demands,’ he said, much to the visible astonishment of his own advisors.
The rebel leader looked amazed. He seemed lost for words. ‘Bring me water,’ he demanded of the royal entourage. A squire trotted over on his horse and passed him a small water container. The man swilled the water around his mouth and spat it out on the ground. It was such a gesture of utter contempt that Guy could sense everyone tensing around him.
‘Now bring me beer,’ said the man. Another container was offered to him and he drank greedily.
Guy waited, trying to control the growing horror he felt in his gut. What would the man do next, demand that the king give him his crown?
One of Richard’s advisors, somewhere behind Guy, suddenly shouted, ‘I know you. You’re the biggest thief in Kent.’
This shocked the rebel leader. He stared at his challenger, his face growing red with anger. Turning to his own men he called out, ‘Strike his head from his body.’
But no one moved.
*
Over at the side of the field, Tilda sensed this was the moment everything would change. They had been straining to hear what was happening but they were too far away. But Tyler’s order to strike the king’s advisor floated loud and clear over the distance between them. When no one did so, Tilda felt her hope for the future drain away like spilt milk. Perhaps their ingrained fear of royal authority, or awe for the king, prevented them from acting on Tyler’s orders? Clearly this was one drastic step no one was prepared to take.
Someone moved out from the king’s entourage. ‘That’s Walworth,’ said John. ‘That’s the man who is Lord Mayor of London.’
Tilda watched in trepidation as Walworth began to scuffle with Tyler, who reached for his dagger and tried to stab the lord mayor. But the blow did not penetrate his armour. Walworth reached for his own dagger and stabbed Tyler in the neck. Another one of the king’s men hit him with a sword.
Tyler managed to stay on his horse. He turned around and began to ride back towards his own lines. But halfway between the two he fell from his horse, landing with a dramatic clump on the ground.
Other men with him did not stop to pick him up. After being so bold, it now seemed as if everyone had lost their nerve.
The rebels tensed, ready to fight. Tilda could see the bowmen among them readying themselves to unleash a hail of arrows on the king and his soldiers.
‘Get ready to run,’ said Thomas. Tilda felt sick with fear. She wondered if they too would fall victim to the hail of arrows that would soon darken the sky.
But then something extraordinary happened. King Richard broke away from his advisors and rode forward alone on his horse, straight up to the rebel lines. Tilda watched, eyes wide in astonishment. Was she going to witness the death of the King of England? But no one unleashed their arrows. They all strained to hear what he would say.
Richard spoke in a loud, clear voice. ‘I shall be your captain,’ he said. ‘Follow me to Clerkenwell.’
‘He’s had it,’ said John. ‘They’re going to kill him.’
Tilda held her breath. But her uncle John was wrong. All the bowmen loosed the tension on their bows. Arrows were returned to quivers. Richard turned his horse towards Clerkenwell, a nearby district on the northern edge of the city. The rebels all followed along behind him.
